


Sherlock and John Give Greg a Heart Attack (or Greg Should Not Be Surprised)

by unknownsister



Series: Delicious Snacks [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little, First Time, M/M, Threesome, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3646029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So that's why you're here tonight. I'm saying thank you. We're saying thank you. Very unconventionally.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock and John Give Greg a Heart Attack (or Greg Should Not Be Surprised)

**Author's Note:**

> Another work that was supposed to be 2000 words & went wayyyy over that. Posted for the prompt 'you've ruined my favorite shirt' for the [Come At Once Challenge](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/?) on LJ. 
> 
> I've made this a sequel to the first fic I wrote for Come at Once, which is [Greg Gives the Best Presents](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1171491), which you don't have to read. Just know that Greg & John had a one night stand, Sherlock walked in on them & Greg told him chase after Sherlock to live happily ever after. That's it! Partly beta'd by Chelsea (thank you duck). Any worries about OOC-ness or errors are pretty much my own. Enjoy!

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are sickeningly in love.

Oh, they're not as obvious about it as some couples. There's some subtle PDA occasionally or they show up together with mussed hair and flushed faces. No obnoxious nicknames for each other or overbearing conversations about their shared holiday. If one didn't already know them, you might not think them in love at all.

But Greg knew them both very, very well and the evidence was overwhelming. John had taken his advice to heart, chased Sherlock after he caught John and himself in a situation so embarrassing no one had mentioned it since. Now lovers were farting rose petals and unicorns drifted over London and everyone was in love.

Except for Greg. Well, maybe he was a little in love.

He hates feeling like this – old, bone-deep tired, sick of looking at himself in the mirror. It was the kind of boring behavior he disliked in others but outright despised in himself. What use was a pity party?

The worst part was that the people in his life probably knew just what a slump he was in and he was bringing everyone down with his gloomy outlook. He doesn't have anyone particularly close to him, but he's not lonely; coworkers and football mates and occasional university friends. He still gets out but it just didn't feel the same and he isn't sure how to snap out of it.

It doesn't help that he can't think straight (no pun intended) around John anymore. Ever since their lovely night, Greg can't help but remember John's strong hands, his imaginative promises. Each time his eye snags on the ghost of a love bite at the back of John's neck, he might as well punch his time card for the day and go home to have a furious wank-fest where he determinedly _doesn't_ gasp John's name in the end.

In the past few weeks, his fantasy world expanded. While at first he reluctantly allowed himself to imagine who put those marks on John's skin, he should have know that once those floodgates opened, he wouldn't be able to shut them again. Instead of just seeing himself in his daydreams, Sherlock showed up with maddening frequency and bled into whatever hazy, sexy thing John had been doing. The first time he solidified in Greg's thoughts, he came thinking about the bruises those big hands would leave on John's solid hips. He looked down at the mess of himself and distantly noted that it was the hardest he'd ever come in his life.

He is so one-thousand percent fucked.

With John, the attraction has always been there, but he surprised himself with Sherlock. Of course, the man is gorgeous and strange, super-model handsome in some ways. But his personality is such a turn-off that Greg had never really considered him in a sexual context. Their working relationship was more important, but it seems like John had changed them both. The doctor opened up a whole new realm of possibilities in Greg's mind about what Sherlock got up to in their time together.

Despite what the press thinks, Greg doesn't call Sherlock and John in for _every_ case he works on. Sometimes weeks will go by and he won't see them at all. Maybe he gets a few harassing texts from Sherlock, but they've had their own long string of personal cases recently and it ends up being two months before he sees them again. When both of them bustle into his office – Sherlock first, always, with John smiling and trailing close behind – his mind nearly blanks with the reality of seeing them again.

John has been too busy with cases and, Greg assumes, consummating his new relationship, to really come to the pub anymore. Ever since their one night stand, John's been open and friendly with him, perhaps touching him a little more often than before, but never mentioning their tryst. Greg wants to shake him sometimes, ask him if he was as affected by that night as himself, but he knows how selfish that sounds. Greg was the one who told John to confront Sherlock. He doesn't love John, but he still has a mighty affection for him and it's grown to a school-boy level crush in the intervening months, probably because he's fought so hard against it. It's greedy and a waste of time, but no one can stop Greg from thinking what he wants, even if he tries to reign it in to discuss the burglary he needs help with.

His mouth runs on autopilot as he explains the case, but he drinks in the details of the pair as much as he can. After months of mental images, the real people surprise him. John's hair has gone the tiniest bit more grey and Sherlock's put on a few extra, healthy pounds. They both look happy, well-balanced. As well-balanced as Sherlock can get anyway.

They go through the motions of the work; Sherlock does something stupid, Greg is furious with him, John saves the day, and the NSY has a shiny feather in their cap in the form of an international smuggling ring brought down. He's perfectly fine throughout, but he begins to suspect his natural barriers against John Watson have eroded to the point of flimsy, water-logged cardboard. He has no protection against his smiles, his finesse under pressure, his quiet joy at a job well done. More than once, gloved fingers snap in front of his face and Sherlock mutters 'pay attention!'

He congratulates them at the end, but his mind is a million miles away, wondering if they have post-case celebratory sex, if John will stretch Sherlock out on their bed or will they be so impatient they fuck right there on the kitchen table? He flushes at his own crassness and while John is talking to Donovan, Sherlock is looking right at him, assessing.

His shame and guilt slide down his throat to burn low in his belly. Sherlock must know what he's thinking, can read it all over Greg's face. With such an abrupt facing of his thoughts, he realizes how creepy he's been all this time, thinking about another couple in the hundreds of ways he has, inserting himself into their private lives where he wasn't welcomed. Even if he had never done or said anything about it, the lingering disgust with himself is enough to make him drop his eyes in front of Sherlock, even when he knows it's a huge mistake to give Sherlock even the tiniest scrap to work with.

Surprisingly, the detective stays silent. John's stomach growls and they're free to go. John shakes his hand with warmth, his fingers grasping for a second longer than normal. He's helpless in John's direct gaze, meeting his eyes and allowing a grim smile before waving goodbye and returning to his office.

 

oOo

These daydreams have to stop, Greg concedes. He needs someone in his life to fill the gap he's made for himself. After their last parting, he feels like a mad pervert wanking over his _colleagues_ for chrissake, though their sensual ghosts linger over every hour he spends in bed willing himself to sleep.

Eventually, he's pushed to do something foolish.

He overhears some rookies chatting in the break-room before their daily briefing, arguing over the merits of a new app on their phones. He pours his coffee slowly, using his super-detective skills to listen in unobserved.

“I mean, it's just a waste of time. You're not going to find anything lasting on there.”

“You could though! It's not just for hook-ups.”

The first rolls his eyes and they continue bickering as they leave the room.

At home that night, Greg folds himself into his armchair and stares at his phone. He looks at the dating app he just downloaded and feels a hundred thousand years old. He could just delete the app, go down to the bar and pick someone up like he's done all his adult life. His thumb hovers over the icon, mind blank with indecision.

He pulls up the camera and takes a photo of himself instead, building his profile and digging in.

 

 

oOo

The app works based on your location and Greg can't help the dark turn his thoughts take about the criminal implications the program could have. Despite his initial reservations, he makes a decent enough profile and starts swiping. He expresses interest in a few people, sends a few messages. He gets chatted up more than he thought he would (they tend to like his hair) and he feels a tiny bloom of confidence as the nights go by.

It helps hearing that you're handsome and desirable, words he hasn't heard since his fumble with John Watson months ago. He goes on a date with a school teacher, but doesn't go home with him. The next week, he meets up with a fitness instructor who uses the app for hook-ups only. Greg doesn't mind, but the night ends badly when he wakes up in bed next to her and she reminds him strongly of his ex-wife. He sneaks away in the pre-dawn light and leaves his favorite pair socks behind.

This cycle goes on for a few weeks and at least Greg is getting out of the house regularly. He enjoys greasing his dating wheels, forcing himself back into the flow of humanity, even if everyone looks a lot younger than he remembers. The app might be a little skeevy sometimes, but he tries not to think about it too hard. It's working to distract him from his initial problem of detective and doctor, so he doesn't delete it.

Team D & D sit before him now, chatting. Mostly it's just Sherlock talking over both Greg and John anytime they try to speak, but it's pleasant enough. Sherlock is irritable, but much more mellow than he's been in the past. He came in for cold case files that Greg keeps stacked in his office for occasions such as this one.

He rests his head on his folded arms, listening to John and Sherlock bicker lightly about whatever. His eyes slip closed and he breathes in the humid pocket made by the square of his forearms. The space smells like wood and his aftershave from this morning.

He wonders idly if Sherlock wears cologne. It's probably expensive, something French. His mind skips easily to the familiar grooves and he's racing along his favorite fantasy track, the Sherlock and John of reality fading as he welcomes their imagined counterparts. John probably smells a little like the cologne just by proxy, his lips pressed against Sherlock's pulse as he bends his head back by those lovely curls...

The desk vibrates with a loud BZZT and Greg jerks his head up. His phone rests before his arms and a notification from his dating app lights up the screen. He snatches it up, quickly pocketing the device, but looks up to see Sherlock staring at him with slightly creepy intensity. John falters in his argument and frowns at Sherlock.

“What is it?”

He turns to Greg.

“Greg?”

The inspector is _not_ going to be the first one to look away. Did Sherlock see his phone? Did he notice the app? He probably doesn't even know what the app is. But Sherlock knows _everything_. Greg scowls even as a cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. Why does he care so much? He doesn't care. Not a bit. It's his own private business. John clears his throat and Sherlock's concentration turns smug.

“Come along, John. We've got work to do at home.”

Greg doesn't stand as they leave, even as John shoots him a final, worried look as he shuts the door behind them. He blows out his breath in a loud whoosh as he leans back in his chair, happy to put the tense moment behind him.

 

oOo

It's a Thursday night and Greg has the day off tomorrow, in theory. He'll probably get called in at the last minute, but he wants to enjoy his hypothetical night off. He props himself sideways in his arm chair, enjoying his beer while he swipes through his phone. It was an ideal night for hooking up – nothing too serious, he was in a good mood. The night was still early enough for them to get dinner and he had hoovered his place earlier in hopeful anticipation of bringing someone home.

He declines a few casual requests, sends off a few of his own, before he gets one that makes him set his beer on the floor. His heart thumps as he selects her profile – she's exactly his type. Absolutely gorgeous, smart, she'd flattered him with her comments, and she was definitely interested in meeting at a restaurant halfway between them in thirty minutes.

He can't get dressed fast enough, pulling out all the stops to impress. He smooths his hair, pulls on his favorite shirt, the nice-ish slacks and his best cologne. He undoes three buttons at the neck of his shirt, does them back up again, then compromises on two undone. He enjoys it when someone is forward, but he doesn't want to scare her off. His nerves rattle and his confidence shakes for a moment, staring at himself in the mirror.

Looking away, he doesn't give himself time to be maudlin. He pockets his keys and heads down the stairs to meet the girl of his dreams (for tonight).

 

oOo

It's past time for them to meet. Greg swirls his glass of red and takes a sip, repressing the nervous motion of checking his phone for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. She said she'd be here, but maybe something happened. He'll give it ten more minutes before he gives it up as a loss and goes home, disappointment already soaking in.

The time limit ticks by and Greg sighs, flagging down the waitress and ordering some crab rangoon to go. She refills his glass before she leaves and he taps the table with his fingers, people watching. The air shifts and someone drops into the seat at his table. His eyebrows raise in surprise then anger as

Sherlock Holmes sits across from him, smiling at his reaction.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“That's no way to talk to your date.”

Greg splutters and Sherlock's irritating grin spreads. Greg wants to smack it off his face.

“I'm meeting someone here, so you can fuck off, thanks very much.”

“She's not coming.”

“How would you know?”

Sherlock picks up his glass of wine and licks the rim slowly before drinking deeply. Greg's anger yanks over to aroused suspicion, his heart kicking wildly in his chest as he goes on high alert to outsmart the smartest man in the room. Being obvious in front of Sherlock was the source of many recurring nightmares; they always end with the detective going home to have a good laugh with John over the sad old pervert who thought he could keep up with them. Maybe he was dreaming right now.

Dark red stains Sherlock's lips as he gives an exaggerated pout.

“Honestly, I thought you would be more pleasant in these situations.”

“Explain. Yourself.”

His phone chimes in his pocket and he ignores it, but Sherlock looks down at his trouser pocket.

“That will be another of your suitors.”

Greg flushes in justified embarrassment. Of course he hadn't snuck the app by Sherlock's eye of fucking Mordor. Of course he'd seen it. He pointedly doesn't get his phone out.

Sherlock leans back in his seat and swirls Greg's glass of wine, pulling out his own phone and scrolling with nonchalance.

“My profile is getting quite a bit of attention. Three requests within the last twenty minutes.”

He flips the screen around and shows Greg the profile of dream-girl. She was just too good to be true, he should known. He shoves the mobile back at Sherlock who smiles with fiendish glee.

“I should have you arrested. Impersonating another has plenty of criminal implications.”

“You would never have come if you knew it was me.”

What's going on? He squints at Sherlock a little, trying to figure out his game.

“Get to the point, Sherlock. If you're here to embarrass me, it's not going to work.”

He ignores the snort in his direction, carrying on.

“It's none of your business what I do with my spare time and I'm not interested in whatever you're trying to do.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that just yet.”

“What?”

He gasps in surprise as the contents of his glass hit him square in the chest, red wine splashing in his face and soaking his lap. His hands are out in front of him, frozen in an aborted attempt to stop this further humiliation. He can't even move, his shock freezing him as Sherlock comes to his side, tutting and fussing over him in fake concern.

One of the staff runs over, offering a towel and he looks up to see Sherlock refusing them, stunned into silence. He stands up as well, staring dumbly at his ruined shirt and following Sherlock's tug on his arm, his take-out swinging by his side in a plastic bag.

They make it outside and Greg rounds on him, seeking blood.

“This had better be for a case.”

“It's not.”

His pulse rushes in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the street for a moment. He closes his eyes and breathes, trying to calm down before he smashes his fist into Sherlock's stupid, pretty face. He plucks at his shirt, refocusing.

“This is my favorite shirt, you absolute dickhead. Tell me what's going on and cough up the money for me to buy a new one.”

“Nonsense, I'll have Mrs. Hudson clean it for you.”  
  
“What?”

“We're five blocks from Baker Street. Much closer than your home. Look, here's our taxi. Let's take it to her right now.”

His next 'what' is muffled as Sherlock shoves him into the vehicle, overthrowing his balance to make him land on his face on the opposite seat. He scrambles up right and kicks Sherlock hard in the shins. He winces and smacks Greg on the arm, turning towards the alarmed cabbie.

“We're fine, just drive. 221 Baker Street.”

The doors lock and they're zooming away. Greg tucks himself as far away from Sherlock as possible, arms crossed as he glares out at the city. Sherlock doesn't breathe a word of explanation the whole way.

 

oOo

He thinks about staying in the car and refusing to leave as Sherlock surprisingly pays the fare. On the ride over, his anger morphed into annoyed curiosity and resigned irritation as his sticky shirt began to dry on his skin. He smells a bit terrible now and he wants to wash his face off sooner rather than later. Maybe John would have some answers to what the actual fuck was going on.

He gets out and Sherlock unlocks the front door, leaving Greg to close it behind them. The moment it locks, Sherlock is on Greg, slipping buttons free and tugging on his shirt, a serious frown of concentration on his face. Alarm bells start clanging. He grabs Sherlock by the wrists, halting him when he tries to push past the resistance.

“Stop! Stop stop stop.”

He does. They are standing very close to one another and if he wasn't being obvious before, Greg surely is now. He's hyper-aware of Sherlock's steady pulse beneath his palms, the blue of his eyes, and oh god, fuck that fucking cologne or aftershave or hair product – whatever it is, it smells heavenly and masculine and Greg wants to plant his face right in the vee of Sherlock's shirt and just _breathe_.

Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt again, slowly, watching his face and keeping his voice low.

“I'm going to give your shirt to Mrs. Hudson. John will explain everything upstairs.”

The last button comes free and Greg can't look away from Sherlock's face. The detective breaks the moment, sweeping past him and pushing at his shoulder blade.

“Go on.”

He opens Mrs. Hudson's door without even knocking and leaves Greg cold and alone in the foyer, his undershirt sticking to his chest. He takes the time to assess himself and what's going on as much as he can. He could bolt – the door was right behind him. It might be a little chilly in just his vest, but a cab would get him home soon enough and he could pretend like none of this ever happened.

But... He glances at the stairs leading to 221B. He wasn't imagining the heat he felt in Sherlock's stare. He was 99.9% positive he wasn't projecting. Did he want to risk that one percent? John was up there waiting for him, right? His natural curiosity would burn him alive if he went home and never found out why Sherlock did all this bullshit in the first place. He swallows and starts on the stairs, taking deep breaths and willing himself to calm down.

He reaches the landing for the living room and knocks, watching as John's shadow blocks the golden strip of light under the door. It opens and he stares at the doctor's bare feet for a moment before finding the courage to look up.

John looks slightly frazzled, his fringe standing up on end, the tips of his ears pink. An open bottle of whiskey sits on the coffee table behind him. He's slightly too loud when he invites Greg inside.

“Greg! Good of you to come, mate. Come in, come in.”

He steps aside, gripping Greg's shoulder and guiding him towards the couch. He isn't sure where to look, uncomfortable and under-dressed. When he comes to 221B, it's usually for short spans of time and always for business. Being there with an unknown context puts him on his toes and he perches on an arm of the couch instead.

“Oh, what did Sherlock do? Let me get you a towel.”

He does, letting Greg wipe his face clean before pouring amber liquid into another glass.

John hands him a drink and sits down hard on the couch. It jostles Greg and he turns to face him better, not touching his liquor, but drinking in John. He wears a striped t-shirt, worn thin in the shoulders, and loose pajama pants, his toes stretched out and wiggling as he pushes his legs straight. He sips from his glass, not looking at Greg and the tension between them makes Greg unhappy.

Not too long ago, he would have considered John to be one of his best friends, someone who was always up for a chat and a pint. They had such shared schedules half the time and John was so easy to talk to. He doesn't necessarily regret their night together, but since they never talk about it, Greg wonders if the distance between them will ever be closed.

“I meant to thank you.”

Greg pulls himself from his thoughts and turns some more, taking a drink without thinking. He raises his brow as he hums a question.

“For...”

John waves vaguely between the two armchairs facing each other across the room.

“For us.”

He finally meets Greg's eyes and the gratitude he sees there warms Greg to the core. He didn't _really_ have anything to do with them getting together; he could maybe be called a minor catalyst as most. But putting aside all his own feelings, he was genuinely happy for the two of them. They fit together better than most and if he believed in silly things like 'destiny' when he'd had a little too much to drink, it would apply to them as well. He imagines they do all sorts of other things perfectly together as well. John continues.

“When we – that night. I couldn't believe it. I never would have thought things would turn out like they did.”

John swallows thickly and Greg drops from the arm of the couch to the cushions, watching John's throat work as he takes a long drink. He turns back to Greg, his heart on his sleeve.

“I can't believe we waited as long as we did. I mean, he's not perfect, but neither am I.”

He scoots closer to Greg on the couch, their knees almost touching, but he looks at their chairs again.

“But we're together because of you. I would never have confronted him at all if you hadn't encouraged me.”

Greg's mouth goes dry. John closes the distance between their legs and their arms are touching as he turns back to stare straight into Greg's face. He couldn't look away if he wanted to.

“So that's why you're here tonight. I'm saying thank you. _We're_ saying thank you. Very unconventionally.”

Greg likes to think his 'what' is implied this time as John takes the drink from his hand and pushes their mouths together. The whiskey on his breath is less intoxicating than the touch of John's tongue to Greg's lips. He locks up for a second time that night, stunned to immobility as John kisses him slowly, both hands on his jaw.

This wasn't allowed – Greg wasn't a cheater. It makes his stomach twist with indecision as John eases up, uncertainty rearing between them. They both jump at Sherlock's voice from the doorway.

“Don't stop, John. He'll enjoy it once he's past his moral crisis.”

Greg jerks his head around to look at him and finds Sherlock leaning against the door jamb, tapping at Greg's touchscreen.

“Hey! What are you doing to my phone!?”

“Deleting this ridiculous app. You don't need it.”

“Is that what this is about?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sheds his coat, hanging it up and approaching the couch. He shoves at Greg's back, pushing him forward into John so that he has to grab his bicep to keep his balance. Sherlock's shoes are kicked off and he wiggles his leg between Greg and the couch, barely leaving enough room for Greg to sit. Long arms wrap around Greg's chest and he stops breathing as Sherlock drags him backwards, his front pressed to Greg's back. He settles his hands lower on Greg's hips and leans forward to rumble in his ear.

“Like I said, you don't need it.”

John presses forward, his hand over Greg's rabbiting heart.

“We'd like to make you an offer, Greg.”

He can't relax in Sherlock's grip, can't calm himself down, not sandwiched between these two. He doesn't know where to put his hands so they hover between himself and John. Sherlock reaches up to take one and John takes the other, his voice the very essence of sincerity.

“Sherlock and I have been talking.”

At Greg's slight change of expression, John laughs.

“Okay, well, I did most of the talking and Sherlock agreed when he felt like it.”

It makes Greg smile despite the heavy tension and John beams back at him, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“I figured, we're consenting adults here. We can – do something. About us?”

John looks hopeful but Greg is still confused.

“Us?”

John's face turns a deeper shade of red and he looks down.

“Yeah, I mean, I thought we really had something that night. I don't want to let that go.”

Greg frowns.

“But what about –?”

Sherlock's chest expands behind him in a deep sigh.

“I obviously would never have allowed this if I wasn't consenting.”

Greg tries to twist and see his face.

“What is 'this' exactly?”

Sherlock cranes around to meet his eyes.

“What does it look like? An open relationship.”

Sherlock kisses him and Greg's stomach swoops, John's fingers tightening around his to an almost painful pressure. He leans back naturally, giving Sherlock easier access as he works his jaw and swipes his tongue where John's was only moments before. He loses himself for a moment because _christ_ , Sherlock is just as good a kisser as he imagined.

A gentle touch on his cheek turns his attention back to John, who leans in to press a few gentle kisses on his already swollen lips. He speaks quietly in the small, hot space between their mouths.

“Sherlock told me about the app.”

He starts nipping down Greg's exposed throat. Sherlock speaks behind him, his voice settling in Greg's chest.

“He was jealous.”

“I was _not_.”

Greg surfaces for a moment, his mind swimming as he tries to take in this incredible situation and process what they were saying at the same time.

“Jealous of me?”

John can't crawl any closer without pushing them off the couch, so he sits back, gripping Greg's closest knee.

“Jealous of them. Those people. Your other one night stands.”

Greg swallows hard at the honest answer, not sure how to respond.

“I didn't know. And well. You have Sherlock.”

John shakes his head in frustration. Sherlock answers for him.

“He does. I have him as well. But John couldn't stop thinking about who was there for you.”

Sherlock's hands slide down Greg's thighs, long fingers curving towards his inner seam.

“So one night, after we finished fucking on this very couch, John asked me about this.”

Greg can't help the tiny groan he looses at the thought of them on this couch, the one all three of them shared right now. John's thumb circles the bone on his ankle, soothing and arousing at once. He speaks up again.

“Sherlock agreed to try, if you were amenable.”

There's a helpless little laugh bubbling out of Greg and he can't stop it.

“If I'm – hah! – amenable!”

He dissolves into unmanly giggles, doubling forward at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. John's hands disappear but Sherlock's stay put. Greg gasps for breath.

“This is just bloody like you two, isn't it? Making decisions without me then just barreling on anyway without stopping to consulting anyone but yourselves. God!”

He straightens and a few stray chuckles drift out before he leans back against Sherlock fully, crossing his arms.

“Alright well, you've both already decided this needs to happen and who am I to try and stop you? You never listen to me on a normal day, so why try now?”

Sherlock's chest shakes with silent laughter behind him while John still looks confused and unconvinced. Greg spreads his arms.

“Let's get on with it, you presumptuous arse.”

John barks a laugh and as he pulls Greg to his feet, his grin is decidedly predatory.

 

oOo

They squabble for a moment in the kitchen – Sherlock draped over Greg's back like a limpet, while John leads them with one hand. John thinks they should go to his room so they could be louder but Sherlock argues that his bed is bigger. Greg just stares at the fridge and can't believe this is happening.

They decide Sherlock's room is closer and that takes priority when Sherlock starts rubbing his arousal impatiently against the small of Greg's back. John assures him Mrs. Hudson is a heavy sleeper as he takes off Greg's vest. As John turns to the bed and starts removing his own clothes, Sherlock whispers in Greg's ear that he got her silencing headphones when he and John started sleeping together.

It makes Greg laugh and John grins at them over his shoulder. He looks so stunning that the laughter dies right there and their eyes lock. He suddenly _needs_ to be taking a more active role and he crosses the small space to wrap his arms around John, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss.

John's pajamas hang loose around his hips where he undid the knot and Sherlock worms his hands between them to work on Greg's button and zip on his trousers. They hit the ground in a heap of fabric that Sherlock guides him out of with a warm hand wrapped around his calf, removing his shoes and socks as well. The clothes are swept away and Greg can hear Sherlock undressing behind them.

As much as he's imagined kissing John in the past few months, nothing compares to the real thing. John makes him feel appreciated and present, like every nuance of his desire is being studied and fulfilled by the man before him. He digs his fingers into short, grey hair, a moan working its way up from the soles of his feet.

When John finally releases him, he's trembling. He doesn't have time to process before a naked Sherlock is turning him around and kissing him senseless. Greg's hands flutter before settling on his ribs, warm and shifting beneath his fingers

Sherlock's completely different in taste and feel. His curiosity is evident and Greg spares a thought to wonder about Sherlock's role in all this. Did he really feel attraction for Greg? There were all the physical signs, but those could easily be for John. He wonders how long Sherlock's thought about this – if at all, really. Maybe he...

The detective seems to know Greg's mind is wandering and his kisses turn from curious to demanding, aggressive swipes of his tongue making Greg's knees shake. He presses himself into Sherlock's front, a low ache building in his hips at the feel of Sherlock's cock against his through the fabric of his pants. His dick gives a leap when John steps behind him – he spares a moment to regret not getting to undress him – guiding them backwards toward the bed.

They tumble, Sherlock breaking their kiss so he can latch onto John over Greg's shoulder. John rearranges them, pushing Sherlock to lie against the headboard, Greg nestled between his outstretched legs, exactly as they were on the couch, but with more space.

John crowds into his front, happy to kiss him with the added room. He reaches down to cup Greg's cock and rubs his finger thoughtfully on the wet fabric. He pauses his kisses, studying Greg's face with consideration.

“There's a couple of ways this could go.”

Greg swallows and puts his hands on John's hips.

“Whatever you want. Literally anything you can imagine, I'm up for it.”

He says it and means it. He feels submerged by these two, not overwhelmed, but perhaps out of the driver's seat. They've invited him into their relationship, even if it's just for a one night, and he wants to make the best of their time. He's thought of them together in so many ways that it doesn't even matter what choice he gets – he'd be happy with anything at all.

John senses his eagerness and gives him a boyish grin before meeting Sherlock's gaze. His eyes go soft and he leans over to kiss him again, one hand balancing on Greg's thigh. Sherlock breaks away and leans over to the bedside table, digging around while John settles on his haunches in-between Greg and Sherlock's legs.

Greg takes the moment to just drink him in. He looks contented, glowing. Greg can't help sliding his eyes down, taking in the scar on his shoulder, his torso, his cock, thick and waiting against his thigh. John's watching Sherlock but he feels Greg's regard and raises an eyebrow at him, smirk at the ready.

“Alright?”

His tongue feels like cotton, but Greg manages a nod, body flooding with a fresh wave of arousal as Sherlock tosses a half-used container of lube on the bed. John picks it up and pops the cap before grabbing Greg's fingers. His eyes never leave Greg's as he slathers the lubricant on.

John props himself backwards when he's done, resting on his elbows, his thighs splayed and his knees hooked over Sherlock and Greg's legs. Greg's breath stutters in his chest at John's casual intimacy, his blatant sexuality and the reality of what they're doing slams into him. He freezes, unable to meet John's hooded eyes.

Sherlock stirs behind him, intertwining the fingers of one hand with Greg's and pouring more lubricant on their joined digits. There's a deep murmur of reassurance from behind him as Sherlock guides his hands.

“Look how much he wants this. He talks about this all the time. The two of us fucking him.”

Greg shivers as Sherlock smooths his clean hand up John's thigh and his legs spread that much further. John leans his head back and exposes his throat when Greg does the same on his other thigh, slowly working their way towards his entrance. At the first touch of Greg's finger, John's chest hitches, his breath coming in quickening gasps. Sherlock's finger slides beside his, smoothing tense flesh before working inside. More lube is added and Greg is there beside him, their fingers stretching John together.

Sherlock's breath is hot on the back of Greg's neck and he can feel his cock leaking against his arse. He presses back, enjoying the quiet groan Sherlock releases. As their fingers slip in and out of John, Greg works his hips in slow circles, until Sherlock reaches down and splays his hand on Greg's lower stomach, gripping him closer and grinding upwards. They both gasp at the sensation and John looks up, manages a hazy grin before he clambers towards them, focus coming into his eyes.

He rearranges himself, and reaches for the waistband of Greg's pants. He looks up for reassurance, though he has no need to – Greg was so far past the point of saying no, he wasn't sure why his pants hadn't just dissolved on their own. They work them off together and the blood-hot pressure of Sherlock's dick on his bare skin is barely more than he can take. He leans backwards, biting kisses into the detective's lips, worked up beyond belief. John groans in front of them and Greg reaches forward blindly, seeking any contact he can get.

John yanks his head forward, taking what he wants from Greg's surrender and sheathing his cock in his fist, lube dripping between his closed fingers. He whispers into Greg's mouth.

“I'm going to ride you until you don't know up from down, Detective Inspector.”

Greg gasps, senseless with arousal.

“Yes, yes anything, please.”

John bites Greg's lip a final time and takes the condom from Sherlock's fingers, sliding it on with practiced finesse before balancing over Greg's lap, his desire unrestrained and palpable. He locks eyes first with Sherlock, then Greg as he begins to slowly sink down on Greg's cock, his grimace melting into satisfaction as his buttocks meets Greg's hips. John lets out a happy sigh as his head drops back.

“Christ, that's good.”

While they wait for John to adjust, Sherlock's hand creeps around to John's entrance, touching the place where he and Greg are joined. He slides a finger around and around, causing Greg's entire body to clench in one brutal wave of arousal. His hips buck involuntarily and John smiles as he rocks down.

It's all the warning Greg gets before he's being ridden within an inch of his life. John works himself up and down on his cock, one hand braced against the headboard, the other against Sherlock's shoulder. He clenches his internal muscles occasionally, causing Greg to thrust harder. Each time he does, John rewards him with a sloppy kiss, his breath coming in harsh pants, counter to the slick sounds of their skin meeting.

Sherlock's chin digs into Greg's shoulder as his eyes are glued to what's happening in Greg's lap. John's rocking moves Greg's hips even further into Sherlock and he almost regrets that he's not sitting on the erection that's burning against him. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, reaching out to wrap his fingers around John's bobbing cock while licking his way up to Greg's ear.

He drops his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder on top of John's hand, which reaches up for his hair, gripping it tightly. John rides harder, fucking himself at a faster pace as he keeps his eyes locked on Greg's face, beads of sweat collecting at the base of his throat.

“That's right, come on. Come on, Greg.”

It's straight out of every one of Greg's fantasies and he feels his climax flooding his cock before he can think about stopping it. He yanks down on John's hips and slams his cock upwards as his release hits him. John kisses him through it, circling his hips and grinding down as the final shock-waves roll through him and he goes boneless.

Sherlock licks the sweat from his temple as John gasps and unseats himself. They both give Greg gentle, but urgent kisses as he moves himself to the side, happy to be a spectator for the rest of the show. Sherlock nearly tackles John to the bed as he reaches between them to angle his cock at his entrance. He shoves in roughly, but John doesn't seem to mind, a single grunt his only acknowledgment. Heat rolls off of them as Greg lays beside them, tugging occasionally on Sherlock's curls, John sucking on his fingers.

Sherlock's hips piston in and out, both of them so close that Greg knew they were already teetering on edge. John goes first, his arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck, his face buried in his collarbone as wetness spread between them. Greg wants to lick his stomach clean, but Sherlock presses closer, lifting up John's waist as he smacks his hips against his arse. The tendons on his neck strain and he looks like something wild to Greg, completely vulnerable and fearless in this one moment. He shudders through his end, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses against John's chest, on Greg's cheeks. He slips out of John and leaves a trail of white, sticky release on John's thighs.

Greg gets up to find a wet towel, cleaning a completely wiped and blissed out John, before sharing lazy kisses with Sherlock while he cleaned his cock. He saved himself for last, knotting off the condom and replacing the towel in the loo. He comes back to find John and Sherlock already lying together, John spooning a sleepy Sherlock.

He hesitates in the door. Is the experiment over? He goes so far as to place one foot behind the other before he catches Sherlock's glare. The detective doesn't even have to say anything before Greg gives him a sheepish grin, walking back towards the bed and sitting down on the edge.

Sherlock yanks him closer, man-handling him to lie down as he wraps his leg over one of Greg's. John yawns behind him.

“Just be warned, Sherlock's a sprawler.”

Greg laughs while Sherlock settles his head on his shoulder.

“I am not.”

“He'll find out soon enough.”

Sherlock pulls him a little closer so that they're settled the way he wants and Greg is already starting to drift. He feels John's hand settle on his hip and his gentle snores start up almost immediately. He knows Sherlock isn't asleep and turns to whisper in his wild hair.

“I can't believe you impersonated some poor woman to get me here.”

“I'm a man who knows what he wants.”

“Such an elaborate thing when you could have just asked me.”

“You never would have believed I was serious.”

Greg considers this and tries not to think about tomorrow, about if it will be awkward or if they'll get breakfast, or if they'll change their mind and kick Greg out at first light.

Sherlock nudges him with his nose under his jaw.

“Shut up. You're thinking so loudly I can't sleep.”

Greg laughs softly and shuts off his brain for the night.

“Alright, alright. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, Gavin.”

 


End file.
